Music Builds a Bridge
by AGreatAndTerribleBeing
Summary: AU fic. Teenlock. Sherlock is the new kid in school, and John befriends him whereas most others keep their distance. Both boys know they are attracted to the other, but both are convinced that it can't be reciprocated. Can a bit of maths tutoring and music help out?


**Title-** Music Builds a Bridge

**Author-** Phoenix Foxfire

**Rating-** T

**Disclaimer-** If I owned Sherlock, Johnlock would be canon for real. Is it? No. Therefore, I do not own Sherlock.

_**A/N**__- written for fuckyeahjohnlock fanfic contest for the month of June. The challenge was to write and AU fic between 1000-5000 words. It's the first AU fic I've written for any fandom, and as such is not terribly daring, no mythical creatures or anything. But it is Teenlock. Keep in mind, I've travelled between the US and the UK my entire life and was homeschooled, so I've based the school system off of what I've been told and never experienced myself. Sorry if I get any of it wrong. This is basically pure fluff and romance. Also, I got midway through it and then realised I had started in past tense and progressed to present tense...so now it's all in present tense. I think it's better that way?_

The new kid walks in during maths.

John looks up from the sketches he's drawing in his notebook (_because really, who paid attention when the numbers just got all jumbled up anyway?)_ just in time to see a tall, bony teenager slink his way through the doorframe (_is that walk confident or arrogant?)_. He's about six feet tall, with ivory skin and high regal cheekbones set under a mop of black curls. His slate-blue eyes quickly scan the room as he turns to face the class, piercing each student with a calculating stare as the teacher introduces him.

_God, he looks like he's twelve,_ John thinks as he takes in the boy's features. No, he had to be around 17 or 18; they were in their final year after all.

"Class, this is Sherlock Holmes," the teacher announces.

Jake Anderson and Sally Donovan look up from their whispered conversation and groan simultaneously.

"Oh, bloody hell, not him again," Anderson grumbles.

John looks at him, head cocked to the side in curiosity. "What's wrong with him?"

Sally shakes her head. "He's a right git, that's what."

Greg Lestrade turns around in his seat to remark, "You're just sore because the bloke knew what you two were up to earlier, and he said something about it in front of everyone in the hallway."

Sally and Anderson both look away and blush, which clues John in to their earlier activities. He sniggers silently to himself, thinking it was quite what they deserved, after all. Turning back around, he hears the teacher ask Sherlock if there was anything he'd like to say by way of introduction. He pauses, seeming to think about the question.

"Three rugby players, 5 football players, 6 instrumentalists, 1 vocalist, 3 artists, and 2 who don't particularly have any athletic or artistic hobbies," he finally says quietly in a smooth baritone, almost as if to himself.

Everyone looks at him for a moment, not quite sure what he was on about, until the teacher nervously titters, "Well, why don't you take a seat?"

Sherlock gives a curt nod, sitting in the front row (_another thing you never do in maths, who was this kid?_) and John can't help but stare at the back of his head in quiet wonder for the duration of the class. Because while everyone else was confused by the new kid's words, John knows exactly what Sherlock had meant.

He had just described the entire class.

As soon as the bell rings, Sherlock packs up his things and, without a word to anyone, leaves the room. John hurries to follow the boy, wanting to know how on earth he could have possibly known everyone's abilities by looking at them for about two minutes. He catches up with him, jogging a bit to keep up with Sherlock's longer strides.

Clearing his throat, he introduces himself.

"Hi, I'm John Watson."

Sherlock glances at the shorter teen out of the corner of his eye. "Hello."

"So, uh...you're new here?" John immediately feels a blush creeping up to his cheeks._Idiot, of course he is, can't you think of anything better to say?_

"Obviously," is Sherlock's reply.

"Right," John says. They walk on in an awkward silence for a few moments before John fills it. "It's lunchtime now, how about we eat together?"

Sherlock is a bit taken aback by his words, blinking a few times before realising that John seems to be asking the question in sincerity. "Y-Yes," he stumbles over the simple word.

"Great!" John smiles, leading the way to the cafeteria and then out to his favourite spot in the courtyard where they can eat in peace.

For a few moments, John keeps giving the other boy brief glances, both sitting cross-legged under an old oak tree. Finally, Sherlock gives a small sigh. "You've got questions."

"Yeah, how did you know all of those things about the class? I mean, you were absolutely right, but how?"

"I didn't know, I saw. It was obvious."

John shakes his head. "Not to me, it's not."

Sherlock suppresses a huff of annoyance, feeling the strange urge to repay John's kindness. It was not an urge he was used to.

"The rugby players are easy to spot because they are slightly bigger in build, all of those particular three built for tackling. Build isn't the sole indicator, as it might just be genetics, but all three were sitting together, indicating they are close, meaning they are together often, maybe brought together by being on a team. Also, all of their jeans had dirt stains on them, dirt stains which are particular to the rugby practice field I passed earlier. The football players are basically the same deal, sitting together, but they have very distinct calf muscles. The musicians all have certain tells according to what they play. There was a cellist, who has calluses on his hands from playing a stringed instrument, but which one? He sits with his legs apart, in the exact proportion to fit an instrument there, so cello it is. The pianist keeps his fingers slightly curved when they're resting in place on his desk, and he keeps them in Middle C position. There's a girl who continuously beats out a quiet rhythm on every surface, so drummer. There are two trumpet players, a boy and a girl who must have recently been practicing because they both have a distinct mouthpiece ring indented into their lips. The last instrumentalist, a saxophone player, merely had a saxophone charm on her bracelet. The vocalist sits with perfect straight posture, and her breathing is even and smooth. She also breathes from her abdomen rather than her chest, a common trait for singers. Out of the three artists, two of them were painting, they smelled distinctly like acrylics. The last one, which is you, draws pencil sketches, which I could tell not only by the drawings in your notebook but also by the charcoal stains on your fingers."

John, who has been staring unabashedly at Sherlock (_this incredible boy_) now looks at his hands to see that yes indeed they are covered in charcoal.

Sherlock looks at him a moment before adding, "They are very good. However, you don't wish to be an artist, but a medical student, as most of the drawings were of different parts of the anatomy which were very well labelled."

John just stares at him before saying, "That...was amazing."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "What? You really think so?"

John smiles broadly. "Yes. Of course. That was bloody fantastic!"

He says it with such enthusiasm that Sherlock has to believe him, and his eyebrows fly to his hairline.

"No one...has ever told me that before," he remarks softly, studying John's expression. The look of amazement on the blonde teen's face makes Sherlock feel a little dizzy, his heart rate increasing a bit.

"Well, then, I'm happy to be the first," John replies. Then he has a thought. "You looked surprised when I asked you to eat lunch with me earlier. Why?"

Sherlock pauses, his head dipping forward to stare into his lap. "No one's ever asked me that either."

John doesn't really know what to say to that, only knowing that for some reason that piece of information breaks his heart a little. They eat the rest of their lunch in companionable silence.

The next day the two teens were secretly delighted to find out that they had every class together (_what are the odds?_). At lunch, they again head out to sit under the oak tree. They chat for a bit before John asks,

"So, what else can you deduce about me?"

Sherlock, startled by his new friend's curiosity (_no one else has ever willingly asked me to deduce them_), gladly accepts the challenge. He stares at John for a few moments.

"You're not rich, but I'd hardly say your family is poor. Your clothes aren't but a year old, so you don't have to worry about buying new clothes, but they also aren't designer brand. You have a penchant for jumpers, if the wear of the ones you've worn for the past two days is anything to go buy. You've got a sister; I saw her picture when you took out your wallet earlier. Going by the fact that she's holding hands with another girl, she's gay. However, you don't get on with her, because when your conversation with Greg earlier turned to her, you said few words about her and eagerly changed the topic. You yourself are bisexual, and comfortably so. I've seen several people of both sexes 'checking you out', which you notice but are fine with, even when other men look at you. You are extremely attractive, after all. However, you haven't been in a serious relationship, which I know because you never look back at them, you never really look at anyone, and if you were in a relationship currently, you would be eating lunch with them instead of me. However, you do want to be in a relationship, you've looked longingly at several couples you pass in the hallway. My guess is you just haven't 'found the right person' yet. "

Here Sherlock paused, his mind catching up to his mouth, wondering if he'd really called John attractive mid-deduction (_yes, yes he most certainly had_). John hadn't seemed to notice, however, or if he did, was ignoring it. He was staring at Sherlock with a look of adoration again, and Sherlock felt his stomach give a funny little flip.

"Spot on," John marvelled. "Everything, that's all right."

Sherlock grinned back at him. "I usually am."

After school, Greg and a group of boys approach John and Sherlock where they're talking at the door, Greg tossing a ball in his hands.

"Hey, you two wanna play a quick rugby match?" he questions them.

Sherlock looks a bit apprehensive, but John immediately chimes in, "Yeah, why not?" Reluctantly, Sherlock follows the group to the playing field.

About halfway through the match, someone decides to throw the ball to Sherlock. He immediately puts his hands deliberately behind his back and dodges, much to the protest of his teammates.

John jogs over to him, confused. "What was that?"

Feeling the heated glares of the other boys and hearing their jeers, Sherlock raises his head a little in defiance. "I play the violin, I can't afford to ruin my hands by catching that ball."

While the other boys continue to mock him, John cocks his head to the side (_an endearing habit, Sherlock thinks_) before asking, "Any good?"

Sherlock looks affronted. "Of course!"

John smiles. "Maybe you can play a bit for me sometime, yeah?"

Sherlock finds he has to look away from the other boy to keep from blushing. "Yes, I...I think I'd like that."

Greg comes up to them, interrupting the moment. "Sherlock, we can't play this if you won't even catch the ball."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, sensing a challenge he will not back down from. "Fine," he says. "Go find a football. We'll play football instead."

Greg goes off in search of a football, and his return brings the start of a new game. Almost immediately a teammate (_Anderson, god, why is that git playing?_) passes the ball to Sherlock, thinking that he'll never make a goal.

Sherlock dribbles the ball downfield, expertly dodging to the right and then the left, making a spectacular pass to Greg when he finds his way blocked. He runs to get open, and Greg passes the ball right back. Sherlock reclaims possession, fighting off every foot that tries to steal his prize. Seeing three boys guarding him, he feints left swinging the ball out to the right for just a second before darting forward again. Before the boys have a chance to regain their wits, Sherlock shoots the ball from almost midfield. Everyone holds their breath in that split second, thinking there's no way possible the teen could have scored. And then the ball sinks into the pocket opposite the goalie, making the net rattle with a definite swish.

Both teams stop what they are doing. Then, Sherlock's team crowds around him, slapping him on the back and complimenting him. John stares in amazement at the lanky teen (_really, he must stop doing that_), thinking that that play was possibly one of the most surprising things he's seen from the boy yet, and that, yeah, that was a bit of a turn on. John blushed before joining his team in cheering for Sherlock, giving him a smile that was returned with interest. The rest of the match continued with Sherlock out-manoeuvring the other team, winning the game by far.

A month later, Sherlock and John have settled into a steady routine. They go to class together, they eat lunch under the old oak tree every day without fail, and sometimes they join in a football match (_but not rugby, never rugby_). Sherlock isn't really...liked by the other students, however. There's John, and to a certain extent Greg, but he doesn't really have any other friends. This can be put down to his blatantly deducing everyone's embarrassing secrets (_like Anderson's and Sally's_) and disparaging other's feelings (_except John's_) and generally just ignoring all social protocol.

Both boys had noticed that their feelings toward each other went a little beyond platonic. For John, it isn't anything too new. Although he hasn't been in a serious relationship before, he has gone on a few dates and, of course, has been attracted to others. He worries, though. Sherlock doesn't seem capable of love. He doesn't really seem to have much of any kind of feeling at all, although John thinks he wears a mask to cover much of what he does feel. However, John has never seen Sherlock ever look at anybody in such a light. With him, it's all about his deductions and these experiments he conducts that he explicates to John in great detail. But John certainly sees Sherlock in that light.

On Sherlock's part, he's afraid. He really has never felt about anyone like he feels about John. He's never had friends, and has always dismissed love as a chemical defect. Still, he can't deny the fact that when he's around John his pupils dilate (_he knows, he's stood in front of a mirror while thinking about the shorter teen to test that theory_), can't ignore the fact that his heart rate increases when he's around John, and he definitely cannot dispute the fact that when John compliments him, smiling at him like he's the most amazing thing in the world, his stomach flutters. And if that weren't enough, the only thing the genius dreams about (_when he does sleep_) is John. However, Sherlock thinks it's not possible for John to fall in love with him. As much as he doesn't care to change who he is (_no, not in the slightest_), he does know that he is definitely not the easiest person to get along with, that some days he's moody and doesn't talk, that most people look down on his brilliance (_but not John, oh, not John_), that he's not what other people consider normal. So there's no way that John could love him.

Both boys are too blinded by their own doubts to notice the looks of adoration and devotion present whenever the other one isn't looking. Neither notices that when they talk, it's like they're the only two people in the room. Neither notice that they always sit just a little too close to each other. But a few others do. In fact, Greg has a bet going on as to when the two lovebirds are actually going to confess to each other.

One day the two teens walk out to their normal spot at lunchtime to find Anderson and Sally sitting on the wall a few yards away. The two see John and Sherlock approaching, and Sally decides to taunt Sherlock, calling out "Hey there, Freak!"

Sherlock stiffens a bit at John's side. John asks, "Do you want to eat somewhere else today?"

Sherlock glances down. "No."

"Alright then."

The two boys take up their normal positions, and unpack their lunches.

Anderson scoffs. "Look at you, Holmes, have you actually got a friend? I was under the impression that everyone hated your guts."

Sherlock reacts almost imperceptibly, but John sees his jaw clench.

Anderson continues mocking the teen. "Oh yeah, haven't you heard? All your 'brilliant deductions' pretty much just piss people off. No one can stand you. They're just too afraid of having their dirty laundry aired to say anything to your face. Of course, that doesn't help, you can't keep your nose out of everyone else's business anyways."

Sally giggles. "Yup, he's right! No one likes a freak like you."

John feels an overwhelming rush of protectiveness well up inside of him (_no one insults Sherlock like that and gets away with it_). He stands up and before anyone can react, strides over to Anderson and punches him square in the face. He hears something crack and thinks he might have just broken Anderson's nose (_good_). Sally gasps and Anderson just sits up, staring at John with undisguised shock while blood streams onto his lips.

"You two need to get the fuck over yourselves. You're just bitter because he was bold enough to say what everyone else already knew about you two, and it cost you your girlfriend. Well guess what, you sodding wanker, you deserved it. Have your little fuck buddy here clean you up, and don't you dare ever speak about Sherlock like that again." John delivers this tirade with stony look on his face, his denim jean blue eyes radiating ice. Sherlock looks up at his friend, surprise and admiration plain as day on his face (_no one's ever stood up for him like that_). John turns and with a swift, "Come on, Sherlock", the two stride into the school building, Sherlock trailing after John like a puppy trails after its master.

The day everything comes to fruition is the day that John gets frustrated with maths.

"I don't understand, it's like I look at numbers and they all just rearrange themselves on the page. I feel like a kid with dyslexia! Everything's backwards and mixed up."

Sherlock glances at his friend before asking, "Do you want me to help you? There's no one at my house tonight, we could go there after school today." (_stupid, why mention the part about no one being home?_)

John pauses, his heart beating rapidly inside his chest. "Uh...sure. Maybe you can play the violin for me as well?" he asks hopefully.

Sherlock smiles. "Of course."

After school, they head to Sherlock's house, and good to his word, there isn't anyone around. John's head starts filling with clichéd images of what could happen (_stop that, just stop right there_) as Sherlock asks if he'd like anything to drink.

"No, thanks, I'm good." John says (_Is that nervousness in his voice?_).

They head up to Sherlock's room, getting out their textbooks, and Sherlock proceeds to teach John the easiest ways to solve such and such an equation, how this algorithm works, and slowly but surely John begins to understand. There's a moment when John is hunched over the book laying on the desk. Sherlock is leaning over him, one hand on either side of John, his weight resting on his left hand and his right hand pointing to the page. Suddenly John shifts backwards a little and both feel a spark run through them as John's hair brushes Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stumbles over his words, but regains momentum, quickly finishing the problem he's explaining before stepping back and suggesting they both go eat some dinner.

They heat up leftovers, Sherlock muttering a quick, "I'm sorry, I can't cook," to John, to which John assures him that's alright. They each finish a plate of spaghetti before heading back up to Sherlock's room. John turns to Sherlock, saying, "Alright, enough maths for now, it's time for you to play something for me. Please?"

Sherlock suddenly feels his hands get clammy, identifying this new emotion as nervousness. He turns his back to John so John won't see the apprehension on his face, and bends over to remove his violin from its case. He turns back around, closing his eyes before setting the bow to the strings. As he begins to play a slow, sweet melody, John watches the usually stoic face transform into a sea of emotion. The taller teen sways in time with the music, his face expressing the serenity and longing of the peace, his mouth ever so slightly open, his hands gracefully adorning the neck of the violin as if they were made specifically for that purpose. His brow furrows as the song calls for an arpeggio, and smoothes out again with the music.

John stares, overcome with emotion. He's never heard or seen anything more beautiful. As the music draws to a close, the final note hangs in the room as Sherlock opens his eyes, bringing his violin down to his side. He looks to John, trying to gauge his reaction. John stands up from where he has been sitting on Sherlock's bed. His eyes are locked onto eyes that aren't quite blue and aren't quite grey as he slowly closes the gap between them. He reaches up with one hand, his thumb caressing one high cheekbone, as he murmurs his thoughts from earlier.

"Beautiful."

Sherlock can do nothing but stare entranced at the other boy as John carefully stands on his tip-toes to press their lips together gently. It's soft and chaste and everything Sherlock has dreamed it would be. John steps back a little, taking Sherlock's violin gently (_he's never let anyone else ever touch the instrument_) and places it on the bed. He then crosses back to Sherlock, taking his hands.

"Sherlock," he whispers, staring down, unsure of himself. Sherlock frees one of his hands, tilting John's head up so he can look into his eyes. John swallows.

"Sherlock," he begins again, "I think I might have found that one person."

(_and Sherlock knows what he's talking about, of course he remembers that conversation_)

Sherlock squeezes John's hands, wanting to prove to John that there's no need for him to be worried. "I didn't think I could ever feel this way, seeing as I've never found much use for emotions...But I love you, John Watson."

And that simple sentence lights John up with happiness. He radiates with joy, smiling at Sherlock (_Oh god, that smile, please only ever smile like that for me_).

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."

And with that they seal their words with another kiss.

_Well, that's that, then. I hope it was to your satisfaction. This is the longest fic I've written. I actually did have a song in mind for what Sherlock is playing, it's Time To Say Goodbye, sung by Andrea Bocelli. I've never heard it played on the violin but I feel like it would make a beautiful piece._

_By the way, I do so love reviews, if you have anything to say._


End file.
